AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I don’t think it was Dillon six weeks ago when I last did her highlights.
‘He could be The One,’ she intimates.
But he won’t be. Poor Dillon will only last until Angie next comes in for a blow-dry. By then, and I’d stake my life on this, Dillon and Angie will have ‘grown apart’ and some other Mr Wonderful will be The One.
I only want one, I think, not one every six weeks. Just the one man would see me right.
Chapter Thirteen
It’s still bucketing down with rain when I leave work. I’m not the only one who has been subdued today. Nina has been quiet too. She’s been most solicitous towards me all day, even graciously offering me her last banana on our tea break. Clearly she’s feeling very guilty about her lack of matchmaking skills. She also tried to persuade me to have dinner at their house again, but I declined. I so didn’t want Gerry picking over my dating disaster with the glee that he was bound to demonstrate. No doubt he would blame it all on me for being ‘uptight’ rather than admitting that he has a twat for a friend.
I’m glad to get away at six o’clock. The clocks have just gone back and the nights have gone from drawing in to downright dark in one fell swoop. I’ve been busy all day long so I haven’t had much time to dwell on my predicament but now, as I listen to Michael Bublé lamenting that he still hasn’t met me yet, it’s playing on my mind. I’m also dreading finding that the promised flowers have actually been delivered when I get home.
Sure enough, when I swing up to Little Cottage, my headlights pick out the glisten of rain-soaked cellophane wrapped around a bouquet of roses. ‘Christ on a bike,’ I mutter to myself.
Parking up, I reluctantly leave Michael and the cosy warmth of my car and walk in the rain to my front door. I have my key ready and, en route, pause only to whip up the bouquet as the torrent flattens my hair. It’s enormous. A dozen or more of those beautiful long-stemmed Emperor roses in blood red. I dash into the house, banging the door against the rain. Then I take in my room. ‘Oh no!’
From the frantic cheeping I can hear, clearly a bird has come down the chimney while I’ve been out at work. There’s a tell-tale flurry of soot spread across the rug and, no surprise here, a trail of Archie’s footprints takes the silky dirt across the cream carpet, along the back of the sofa and both cushions, up the curtains, dappling across the wallpaper and then they disappear into the kitchen. Scattered all over the room are remnants of feathers and little piles of panicked bird droppings. One of my favourite vases is broken on the tiles by the door. A plant is upturned and the pot, a pile of soil and the broken foliage lie on the floor. Some of my ornaments have been knocked off the fireplace and are smashed in the grate.
It seems that Archie has been zealous in his pursuit of our uninvited visitor.
‘Archie!’ I shout. This time my cat doesn’t come to greet me.
Shaking my head, I go through to the kitchen. At the window, a starling is scrabbling at the glass, beating its wings in terror against its own reflection. I’m amazed there’s anything left of it, given Archie’s past form. Usually I find a bit of bloody goo and a beak. He must have seriously OD’d on cat treats last night if he wasn’t hungry enough to munch on our guest.
Glasses and plates are broken on the draining board, shards of crockery litter the tiles. The contents of the pasta jar are scattered over the worktop. More bird poo. Everywhere. Up the front of the cooker, the fridge, on the bread bin. And amidst the mayhem and squawking, one creature lies peaceful and untroubled.
Archie, snoring like an orchestra tuning up, is prostrate in the middle of the kitchen floor, clearly exhausted by his earlier exertions.
‘Oh, Archibald,’ I sigh, at which my cat jumps and turns to give me a scowl.
‘How dare you disturb my nap, lady,’ his facial expression says. ‘Can’t you see I’ve been busy while you’ve been out enjoying yourself at work all day?’
‘Now I’m going to have to spend the next two hours or more cleaning up this mess, Mister.’
‘Don’t you forget my dinner,’ his glower warns.
Then I realise that I’m having a conversation in my own head with my cat and think that way danger lies.
Madly, the bird beats its wings again. There’s no way I can deal with this alone. I hate flapping things and, more particularly, I hate them in my kitchen. Finding my mobile, I punch in Mike’s number on my speed dial.
‘Hi,’ he says when he answers, and the kindness and solidity in just that one silly word almost reduces me to tears.
‘Mike,’ I say, trying not to sob. ‘I’ve got a bird trapped in the house. Could you pop round and give me a hand?’
